


Steal the Sky

by HolmesGurl



Category: Good Omens, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale comforts Crowley, Crowley PTSD re: burning bookshop, Hurt Crowley, M/M, Wings and flying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 07:57:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20653820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesGurl/pseuds/HolmesGurl
Summary: Sometimes you just have to scream...





	Steal the Sky

  
_Too much love will kill you,_  
_Just as sure as none at all._  
_It’ll drain the power within you,_  
_Make you bleed and scream and crawl._  
_And the pain will make you crazy._  
_You’re the victim of your crime._  
_Too much love will kill you._  
_Every time._

  
—“Too Much Love Will Kill You”  
Written by Brian May  
Performed by Queen

  
It was over.

Crowley silently contemplated this fact as he walked down the London street. 11 years of contemplating, planning, fretting, and worrying (He had actually left that bit to Aziraphale) and after an especially intense couple of weeks of dealing with the climax and mopping up the mess afterwards which involved convincing (read, fooling) Heaven and Hell to leave him and his angel alone… it was over.

His life had spun out of control like a top on overdrive only to come to a screeching halt, allowing him to finally breathe and he honestly didn’t know what to do with the silence.

But that was the thing.

Silence scared him.

That was why he liked his fast life. It was noisy, loud, and crazy, with no time for silence. Silence that forced him to think, to look at the reality of his life, to contemplate the ‘what ifs’.

Especially the ‘what ifs’ of the last couple of days.

Before he could try and chase that thought from his mind, Crowley suddenly realized where his footsteps had taken him. He stopped and looked up at the small pub. He remembered this place, even though he had been submerged in grief the last time he had walked in and extremely drunk but extremely determined when he had walked out.

The Trident and The Harp.

How fitting.

Although had it been the The Serpent and the Flaming Sword, he would have turned around and ran.

Crowley pushed open the door. He had some unfinished business here. And it involved a very big bottle of single malt that had never been finished.

***

  
Chocolate always made everything better.

Aziraphale smiled at the thought as he carefully balanced the nearly full cup of cocoa in his hands. He crept over to his reading chair and gently set the cup down on the end table and picked up the copy of ‘American Gods’ he had just recently begun to read. He had to admit, this Gaiman chap was quite good.

He had taken a sip of his cocoa and opened the book to continue where he had placed the bookmark weeks ago. But after a few minutes, he found he could not sink back into the plot. Other thoughts simply kept intruding.

Too much had happened over the last few weeks to be ignored, to let fester out in the sun. Carefully replacing the bookmark, he closed the book with a brisk ‘snap’ and set it back on the end table with a murmur of, “So sorry, my dear Neil. Perhaps later.”

Aziraphale sighed, uncertain as to how to proceed. Go for a walk to revel in the world they had just saved? Find Adam or Anathema or Newt or even Madam Tracy to talk about everything that had happened? A part of him wanted to talk about it all, especially to someone who had actually been there. But somehow, the only one he knew would truly understand was the only witness that was not of this Earth.

Yet Crowley had been strangely silent since their celebratory lunch at the Ritz. And Aziraphale had gotten the feeling that Crowley simply wanted to be left alone. Like the angel, he probably needed to process everything.

It was all right. Aziraphale could give him time. He was fairly certain that everyone needed it.

***

  
Crowley had his head resting on his hands as he sat hunched over in the back corner booth of The Trident and The Harp. He had been there for several hours letting himself get completely shitfaced on that bottle of single malt. He’d allow himself an hour or so to enjoy the lovely feeling of intoxication before miracling the alcohol out of his system and back into the bottle, allowing him to start the process all over again. He kept hoping everytime the alcohol left his system, it would take with it the memory of that feeling of despair and hopelessness when he was certain that Aziraphale was gone. Not just discorporated — **_gone._**

It was a feeling that had attached itself to him the last time he was here, attempting to drown it in as much scotch as was angelically possible. Angelically, because as he stood there in that burning bookshop, screaming his best friend’s name, searching for him with not just his eyes or his ears, but with his spirit — his heart — he knew his angel was not there. The emptiness that that echoed back in response to his cries, spoken and unspoken, had told him as much.

Rage had come first. Surrounded by fire, he had screamed it out to all of them; Heaven, Hell, Earth, and all the beings therein. One of them had taken his angel, his best friend, and he didn’t care who. He could spread his rage equally amongst them all.

“BASTARDS!” he had howled. “ALL OF YOU!”

It was when he had noticed the smoldering book on the floor in front of him that the aching hole in his chest began to form. Aziraphale had spotted it in the back seat of the Bentley and they had concluded that it had belonged to the mad American woman who had hit the Bentley with her bike. He had taken it with him with the promise to somehow get it back to her.

Obviously, that hadn’t happened.

Truthfully, he just hadn’t cared. It was something to remember his angel by; perhaps having it would ease the pain.

At that point, he had heartily decided that he just didn’t give a rat’s ass what happened to the Earth. Let the world plunge to its death in fire and flame while the angels and the demons duked it out on top of its ashes. Without anyone to run off to Alpha Centauri with, what was the fucking point?

He had picked up the book and, snapping the flaming doors open, slowly walked out of the bookshop. He could feel the melted, ruined sunglasses sitting on his face and he had peeled them off and stared blankly at them.

“I shouldn’t litter, should I?” he had muttered to himself. “I mean, I should litter. I’m a demon after all. But I don’t think anyone is keeping score anymore.”

The destroyed sunglasses slipped from his fingers to hit the pavement with a clatter.

At The Trident and The Harp, behind a copy of those sunglasses, tears sprang up in Crowley’s eyes as the memories penetrated that haze of inebriation he worked so hard to acquire. Dammit, wasn’t this stuff supposed to make you forget? So far, it was doing a piss-poor job.

He grabbed the bottle and filled his glass again.

***

  
Eventually, Aziraphale had opted for St. James Park and the duck pond. However, before stepping out the door, he paused to tuck a small bag of oyster crackers into his pocket. He had discovered the ducks were especially fond of them and he always made sure to have some with him when he headed to the park.

At the park, Aziraphale allowed himself to gaze down at the water. His reflection peered back at him, an expression of patient contentment written there.

Even before he could start tossing the crackers, several ducks swam to the bank of the pond and climbed out to toddle over to him with loud inquisitive and demanding quacks.

Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling at the birds as they sat there, peering up at him, waiting for the angel to drop crackers for them.

“Hello, my dears,” he murmured. A few crackers tossed out towards the water resulted in a cacophony of quacks and a blur of feathers. A few of them stayed close to him, waiting for a personal delivery of crackers. He didn’t disappoint them.

A few minutes later, the bag was empty, and the ducks were quacking contentedly as they waddled back towards the pond, wings fluttering and tail feathers shaking.

“Until tomorrow, sweethearts,” Aziraphale said softly to the retreating birds. He paused and peered back down into the water again. His own face stared back up again, that expression of peaceful contentment still there. But he could see just very small change, as if something was underlying that expression. An alteration beneath the mask.

He wasn’t sure what to make of this.

The bench he and Crowley frequently occupied nearby was empty. (Apparently, no clandestine meetings between agents or attaches of various foreign powers were scheduled for today. This surprised Aziraphale as it was a Monday, after all.) He went over and settled himself down, prepared to enjoy the sunshine and the cool air.

But his thoughts steadfastly refused to settle. The little buggers just hopped around inside his head with no rhyme or reason, doing their level best to distract him and that simply would not do. And so many of those thoughts drifted to Crowley. He took another unneeded deep breath and tried again.

Nope.

He tried once more with no success. It simply was not working.

He had been trying to use a method of calming his thoughts that he had learned from the humans to deal with everything that had happened in the last few days, but had met with little success. There was just too much hopping and bumping around in his head to easily be dealt with.

Perhaps there was another way…

Perhaps instead of trying to silence the individual thoughts, he should figure out _why_ they were there.

Eyes closed. Unneeded breath.

Immediately, he was hit with the strangest feeling, as though his brain was swimming upstream against an uncontrollable torrent. He recognized the feeling. He and Crowley had experienced it many times together. Intoxication.

But this was different somehow. Buried beneath this torrent, like a shiny new penny buried in the silt at the bottom of a river, was a bright sliver of pain. The torrent was attempting to bury it, but was not quite succeeding. The sliver kept stubbornly showing through. And it **_hurt._**

Another wave of the torrent hit him, causing Aziraphale’s eyes to snap open. Yes, he definitely recognized it.

Well, this _certainly_ would **not** do!

He had given Crowley enough time. He needed to do something about this.

***

  
Aziraphale wasn’t surprised by the name of the pub as he walked up. He recognized the place as the one he had been thrown into as he tried to get back to Earth and find his demon friend.

_“Can you hear me?!”_ he had cried as Crowley’s quiet whisper of his name had faded.

_“Of course I can hear you,”_ Crowley’s annoyed and slurred voice had responded.

The conversation continued to play itself out in Aziraphale’s head as he pulled the pub’s door open and stepped inside.

_“Did you go to Alpha Centauri?”_

_“Nah. Changed my mind.”_ Pause. _“Stuff happened.”_ Pause. Choked sob. _“I lost my best friend.”_

Aziraphale spotted a figure drunkenly slumped over in the back corner booth. He took a moment to quietly speak to the bartender before slipping through the pub and stand next to the booth, looking down at the motionless figure. After a few moments, Aziraphale settled himself down in the seat across from Crowley.

Perhaps it was the movement as he sat down or perhaps it was simply the proximity of an angel being so close to him that caused Crowley to lift his head. Upon seeing Aziraphale silently sitting there, expressionless, he started. For several long moments, they simply stared at each other.

Then Aziraphale did something that Crowley certainly did not see coming. He pulled Crowley’s empty glass towards him, reached over and picked up the half-filled scotch bottle and filled Crowley’s glass before pushing it back towards him. Crowley snatched up the glass and held it up in a toast. Aziraphale did the same with the scotch bottle. The loud clink of the two drinking vessels colliding echoed around the room like a small explosion.

Crowley easily tossed back the single malt his friend had poured for him. Aziraphale, his fingers still wrapped around the bottle, brought it to his lips and began to drink.

And drink.

And drink.

And drink.

Before Crowley’s startled eyes, Aziraphale completely chugged down the remainder of the bottle of scotch.

Setting the now empty bottle between them, Crowley watched Aziraphale close his eyes as the hard liquor hit him. His shoulders relaxed and he let out a soft sigh.

The two of them sat there silently for several long minutes, allowing the feeling of inebriation to take hold.

Suddenly, Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open. With a swift movement, he was on his feet, the empty bottle now recapped and in one hand, and his other hand reaching out to Crowley. Crowley stared blearily up at him before he allowed Aziraphale to pull him to his feet and out of the pub.

They both stumbled along, Aziraphale leading in not quite a straight line and Crowley following in not quite a straight line.

At the end of the pub building, Aziraphale dragged Crowley into a small alleyway. He released Crowley’s hand. Then, turning to the bottle he still held, he closed his eyes again and appeared to be holding his breath. In his hand, the scotch bottle silently filled halfway back up.

Opening his eyes, he turned back to Crowley.

“Come on,” he said briskly to the demon. “Let’s have it.”

For a moment, Crowley stared at him, confused. Then he sighed, closed his eyes and purged the scotch from his system.

Crowley opened his eyes in time to see the now full bottle in Aziraphale’s hand — just as he raised it over his head and hurled it to the ground.

It exploded in a satisfying wave of shattering sound and glass and scotch.

“AZIRAPHALE!” yowled Crowley. “WHAT THE HEAVEN ARE YOU DOING?”

Aziraphale spun around and glared at Crowley, fury visible in his blue eyes. If the alcohol hadn’t already been purged from his system, that alone would have sobered Crowley right up. “And don’t even THINK about miracling it back together!” the angel snapped.

He grabbed Crowley’s wrist, dragging him out of the alley.

“Come on,” he growled in a very unangelic tone as he yanked Crowley along in the direction of the bookshop. “We need to talk.”

***

Crowley was stunned.

So stunned that he didn’t protest Aziraphale dragging him along as he flounced down the street. (Yes, Aziraphale was _flouncing;_ something that he was rarely seen doing. But it did not surprise Crowley one bit when he did.)

With waves of anger radiating off the angel he decided it would be best not to argue and just follow along. There were a few rare times he had seen his angel angry and it was not an experience he would care to repeat.

Say what you would about Aziraphale, mused Crowley. He presented himself to the world as a sweet, patient, understanding gentleman. But Crowley knew the truth. He was certainly all of those things but so much more. That boy had some steel in him, tempered through 6000 years of living as an angel on the edge. Beneath that fluffy, sweet exterior, buried deep, deep down inside, there really was a bastard that Crowley was proud to know.

It’s just that there were times when that bastard scared the absolute piss out of him.

Crowley was beginning to wonder if this was one of those times.

As they rounded a corner, the bookshop came into view. Aziraphale waved his free hand in the air and the doors to the shop sprang open. He dragged Crowley inside. With another wave of his hand the doors slammed shut, the window sign flipped to ‘Closed’, and all of the curtains and shades closed with several loud snaps.

Oh yeah, thought Crowley, his eyes widening. The angel was PISSED.

Still flouncing, Aziraphale hauled Crowley into the back office. Then he stopped suddenly releasing Crowley’s wrist as he did. Aziraphale spun around to face him. Pointing to the end seat of the sofa, he barked one word at Crowley.

“SIT!”

Crowley could have argued, protested, whatever. But he could see that Aziraphale was very close to exploding, adding another tic to the short tally of times Crowley had seen him angry. Under the circumstances, he did the only sensible thing he could.

He sat.

***

  
Aziraphale glared at Crowley for only a moment before turning to stalk into the kitchenette behind the office. He could feel the emotion coursing through him, causing his shoulders to tense up and rise; his fingers to flex, opening and closing as if they were trying to figure out whether they were going to remain open to relax or close into a fist to either drive it into a wall, or better yet, Crowley’s nose.

He was panting. His heart was pounding. He wanted to scream.

He was… angry.

The feeling had risen up in his chest the moment he had felt Crowley’s intoxication. It hadn’t been the first time since the end-that-wasn’t but this was simply too much.

Since both of them were of angel stock, it was easy for them to sense each other, no matter where they were. And with the close bond formed between them over the last six millennia (something that had been monsterously accelerated in the past few days) sensing each others’ emotions seemed to be a natural progression.

Intoxication wasn’t really the problem. It was its _intensity_ that scared Aziraphale, along with that bright sliver of pain that was present. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought Crowley was trying to drown that pain. Or at least bury it deep in the riverbed of his soul.

Aziraphale had talked to Crowley, asking him, then begging him to tell what was wrong and what Aziraphale could do to help. He drank with him, hoping at some point the demon would let slip what exactly was happening to him. But Crowley had remained stubbornly silent, eventually opting to drink alone when Aziraphale’s questions became too much for him. Aziraphale could still feel Crowley’s intoxication and its accompanying intensity. He could also feel it becoming much more frequent.

This morning, when the feeling showed up again, the torrent flowed through him again, something inside of the angel snapped. Enough was enough. If Crowley wouldn’t let Aziraphale in, Aziraphale would just batter down the front door and refuse to leave. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground, both with Crowley and with Heaven. He had no problem risking his friendship — his relationship — with Crowley to save him from whatever this was, but Heaven might not be so generous. Being shoved away from someone you cared for was one thing. Falling, when you knew you would be tortured and/or obliterated when you arrived in Hell was quite another.

But still, he had felt something start up in his chest upon seeing Crowley slumped in that back booth. It had grown when he spoke to the landlord, asking if he knew when the man with the red hair and the sunglasses had arrived and how much he’d had to drink. It almost exploded out of him when he received the answer.

He had stalked to the back, fully intending to just miracle the both of them back to the bookshop. But he knew Crowley would protest leaving behind half a bottle of scotch. So he decided to get rid of it as quickly as he could and chugged the remains. He allowed himself to feel that lovely feeling of the alcohol hitting him. But a few moments later a wave of nausea hit him. Obviously, this corporation wasn’t quite as used to the hard liquor as he had hoped.

Knowing he needed to get the alcohol out of his system quickly, Aziraphale had leapt to his feet, held a hand out to Crowley, and pulled the stumbling demon out the door.

He dove down a nearby alley with Crowley close behind. When he stopped, he peered down at the empty bottle in his hand before closing his eyes and letting one word roar through his mind and body.

** _LEAVE!_ **

The bottle in his hand quickly refilled with the alcohol Aziraphale had purged from his system.

He turned back to a bleary-eyed Crowley. “Come on,” his normally calm voice taking on a surprising edge. “Let’s have it.”

Crowley blinked at him, not quite comprehending what the angel was saying. A moment later, the words finally penetrated the haze of alcohol and he closed his eyes.

Aziraphale watched as the bottle filled back up. The alcohol that had been coursing through his own system had served as a dam to the feeling that had sprung up in his chest. Now that the scotch was gone, there was nothing to hold it back. He wanted to hurt someone, destroy something. And there were two options within arm’s length.

The sound of the shattering scotch bottle along with Crowley’s accompanying shriek was enough to satisfy him.

Realizing he had dropped Crowley’s hand, he decided he wasn’t going to be nice and grabbed his wrist to drag him along back to the bookshop, not really caring who saw what.

“Come on,” he snarled rather unangelically. “We need to talk.”

***

  
Aziraphale stared at the carton of milk in his hand, mulling over the events that had brought them to this point; that feeling in his chest still pulsing through him with every beat of his heart.

Automatically, a list of words he had known since before his existence marched through his mind.

_Pride._

_Greed._

_Lust._

_Envy_

_Gluttony._

_Wrath._

_Sloth._

As an angel, Aziraphale had not experienced all of the sins. (Though Gluttony could be argued with his love of fine food and fine wine as proof. But Aziraphale only considered it appreciation rather than overindulgence). Yet he recognized one that had coursed through him as he had dragged Crowley back to the bookshop.

It centered itself in his chest, then reached out with irresistible tendrils to his fingers and his hands, making them restless and impatient, and continually moving about. The final tendril reached up into his brain, filling it with such fire that the only thing he knew would quench it was using his fingers and his hands to injure, hurt, or even destroy something.

Or someone.

He took another unneeded breath, this one long and deep and calming. As he exhaled, he felt the tension writhing inside of him drain away.

So this was Wrath; one of the Big Seven. He could see why it was up there. He didn’t like it; this feeling of wanting to hurt or destroy, especially when, as an angel he had the power to do so.

Angels should not mess with the Seven Deadly Sins.

Just that thought alone was as much of a shock as ice water being thrown into his face. He was an angel, he should not be even entertaining thoughts of the Big Seven.

He reached up to the cabinet above his head.

“Angel?” came Crowley’s tentative voice. “Can I help you with anything?”

“No,” answered Aziraphale, a bit more sharply then he had intended as he pulled down a small pot and a tin of peppermint hot chocolate. “I’ve got it under control.”

He thought he heard Crowley mutter, “That remains to be seen.”

***

  
Crowley wrapped his arms around himself and closed his eyes. The sharpness in Aziraphale’s voice told him that the angel was still, at the very least, upset with him. He flopped back against the sofa and, opening his eyes, he stared up at the bookcases arcing above him towards the ground floor ceiling.

Immediately, a scene from the past flashed before his eyes.

Him, standing in a spot very close to this, head thrown back.

Screaming.

_“Aziraphale! Where the Heaven are you, you idiot?!”_

Howling.

_“I can’t find you!”_

Howling as ash fell gently down on his face, like warm snowflakes. The scream being torn from him in all desperation, even though he instinctively knew there would be no answer.

** _“AZIRAPHALE!”_ **

The remembered scream threatened to be torn from his throat again at that moment, but he swallowed it down. This time, it only came out in a choked sob.

Crowley could still hear the angel puttering around in the kitchenette, working on whatever concoction he could come up with at the moment. He guessed it would probably involve chocolate. That was something the two of them had always wholeheartedly agreed on; chocolate was one of humanity’s greatest creations. Along with alcohol.

Crowley suddenly found himself leaping to his feet and wrapping his arms tighter around himself. Why was it so blessed cold in here? For a place that had burned to the ground (only to be reset back into existence at the whim of an 11-year-old boy), it was bloody cold in here.

Especially for a demon.

He found himself pacing the floor like a caged tiger, his already heightened senses on steroids. Every sound, every flash of light, every sensation plucked at his nerves like a small child eagerly yanking on the strings of a harp. All of them pulling up discordant memories he so wanted to drown in that bottle of scotch Aziraphale had smashed on the ground outside The Trident and The Harp.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s wonderfully calm and now gentle voice called out to him. Crowley trudged back to the office to find the angel standing in the doorway of the kitchenette holding two steaming mugs. He could smell the delicious scent of peppermint hot chocolate. Aziraphale motioned to the couch with one of the mugs.

“Have a seat, dear boy. Where did you run off to?”

Crowley sat and bent over to rest his elbows on his knees as Aziraphale placed the mug on the coffee table in front of him.

“Checking out the erotic poetry section,” he mumbled, reaching for the warm, sweet smelling mug.

“I don’t have an erotic poetry section,” answered Aziraphale, settling himself at his desk.

“And it’s a damn shame!” Crowley growled. “If you’re going to start over with a new bookshop, you could at least add some new sections that would interest people! Maybe you’re not interested in selling your books but at least make sure they’re interesting enough so that people might actually want to _buy_ them! Or at least _read_ them!”

Aziraphale said nothing, simply choosing to bend his head and blow on the mug of cocoa.

Crowley took a long drink from his mug. The scalding heat from the cocoa, combined with its sweet/cool taste slid down his throat, burning as it went. He welcomed the heat along with the pain.

He could feel the angel’s eyes on him and knew they were filled with concern. Crowley ignored them as he took another drink of the still-too-hot liquid, letting the last of it drain down his gullet.

Damn, that fire felt _good!_ Maybe not quite as good as it felt downing all of that scotch, but for now, as this feeling of heat spread through him, chasing away the cold in this place, it worked for him.

Across from him, Aziraphale silently sipped his own cocoa, his eyes never leaving Crowley’s face. Crowley could see his expression was stoney as he watched the demon, but deep in those blue eyes, Crowley could see a myriad of emotions.

No, not see them.

_Sense_ them.

This was what it all came back to, wasn’t it?

The whisper-thin connection between angel and demon that, at the very least, let each one of them know the other still existed.

It had tethered them together since the moment they had met on the east wall of Eden, when they had shared their secrets with one another. Crowley, that he had succeeded in “raising trouble” and tempted the humans into having a snack from the forbidden tree. Aziraphale, that he had given them his flaming sword in the hopes of giving them light, warmth, and a chance of survival outside of Eden’s walls. And had later, lied to the Almighty about it.

That connection was a part of him — a part of **both** of them, really — and Crowley had felt it for the last 6000 years. Even through the years, decades, _centuries_ he and Aziraphale had been apart. No matter what was happening; the world was flooding, one of the greatest and most beautiful repositories of knowledge was burning, humans killing each other and throwing the bodies into ovens because they had been declared “different”, that connection had always been there. No matter what was happening or how useless each one of them felt to change things for better or for worse, they could feel that connection deep within themselves and know they were not alone. Someone, a friend, a compatriot, was out there. And they understood.

There had never been a moment in six millennia that Crowley had not felt that connection.

Until last week.

***

  
Aziraphale studied his friend as he brooded.

Whatever this was, it was heading into dangerous territory. Not just with the drinking and cutting himself off from, well, everyone, but the fact that he just did not seem to care. Granted, it was part of demon’s job not to care about much of anything; that was how they were so successful at what they did. But Crowley had gone far beyond a demon’s job description. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about anything. Aziraphale had seen him in that sort of temper tantrum before.

But now, he didn’t seem to care about himself.

Aziraphale wished with all his heart that it wasn’t necessary; that if Crowley chose not to care about himself, Aziraphale would do it for him.

But somehow, in spite of all the love he held for Crowley, he knew it would not be enough.

Aziraphale lifted his mug to his lips for another sip, only to find the mug empty. It took him a moment to realize he had drunk all of the cocoa without tasting it or even realizing it while he had watched Crowley brood. With a sigh, he set his mug on the coffee table.

An awkward silence hung between them.

Aziraphale was a natural talker and silence between him and his best friend was something he simply could not abide. His soft voice was almost like a gunshot in the quiet of the bookshop as he spoke. “Crowley, please talk to me.” His blue eyes pleaded with the demon’s serpentine gold. “What is wrong, dear boy?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

Crowley leapt to his feet, again pacing the small office, arms wrapped protectively around himself. “And how exactly do _we_ know this, angel?” he snapped.

“Because I can feel it. I can sense it. How you’ve cut yourself from everyone and everything. Everyone keeps asking about you. Adam. Pepper. Brian. Wensley, especially. He has certainly taken a shine to you. Anathema. Newt. Madam Tracy. Even Sargent Shadwell. They all want to know you’re all right. And I cannot give any of them a clear answer.”

He could see Crowley’s eyes beginning to glimmer. He pressed on, hoping for some sort of answer.

“And I can sense other things. Such as the drinking and its intensity. The pain you keep trying to drown out, although I have no clue as to its source. Crowley, we did avert a war and we did save the world. And we did it _together!_ Please tell me why that causes you so much pain.”

Crowley plopped himself back down on the sofa and stared at the empty mug on the coffee table. It was a copy of Aziraphale’s beloved angel wing mug, only in black. Crowley couldn’t help a smile quirking the corners of his lips as he noticed this.

He didn’t want to think about it.

He felt that small smile vanish as the thought of what Aziraphale was asking of him pulsed through him, reawakening that thudding ache in his chest, beneath his sternum. Part of his brain frantically scrabbled about, searching for that connection to his angel deep inside of him.

There it was. Relief washed through him as he touched that connection; the vibration of that touch singing along that thread between them.

He didn’t want to think about the absence of that thread, of that connection, of the anguish that the mere idea that Aziraphale was gone, was dead, had produced. Even now, the thought caused tears to prick up in his eyes.

“Crowley?”

There was gentle concern in the angel’s voice as he breathed his name. But Crowley shook his head, as if trying to drive away Aziraphale’s voice. He couldn’t do this. Not now.

The demon leapt to his feet and headed for the stairs.

***

  
“Crowley!”

Aziraphale’s startled cry followed him out of the room.

The angel had felt Crowley’s gentle touch of that that thread between them. It had been so soft, so tender, that it had produced an almost erotic tremor in his chest. He had barely restrained the gasp of surprise it had raised in him.

And had he seen _tears_ in Crowley’s eyes as he hurried from the room?

Had anyone asked him last week, before the non-end of the world, he would have laughed. Crowley had always boasted that demons didn’t cry. But with the events of the last few weeks, nothing could be relied on anymore.

Aziraphale hurried after Crowley.

He could hear the clatter of Crowley’s boots on the stairs above him leading to the roof. Immediately, something cold seized his chest and he followed.

Aziraphale had only discovered the rooftop access staircase when Crowley wanted to go up on the roof to watch the sunset and had proposed climbing up the side of the building to do it. It had taken a quick bit of research and wandering, but they had quickly found the roof access stairwell; it’s entrance being at the back of the closet in Aziraphale’s bedroom.

Aziraphale hurried up to the bedroom.

The closet door stood wide open, the few jackets and waistcoats hanging there swinging slightly on their hangers. The roof access door at the back was also wide open. Immediately, Aziraphale hurried through.

When he emerged on the rooftop, the most astonishing sight greeted him.

Crowley was standing in the middle of the rooftop, face turned upwards to the sky, tears streaming down his face.

_Demons don’t cry,_ the vague thought echoing through Aziraphale’s mind. But before he could act on it, Crowley took off at a run towards the edge of the building. At the edge, he launched himself into the air. Immediately, his raven black wings unfurled and with a few mighty flaps, he shot up into the air like a rocket.

**“CROWLEY!”**

Aziraphale only had time to cry out Crowley’s name before the demon was a diminishing speck in the sky. Immediately, he followed suit; rushing to the edge of the roof, leaping into the air, unfurling his wings, giving them several flaps that reminded him how out of shape he was, and hurtled himself upwards to chase Crowley.

Aziraphale managed to keep him in sight as they rose into the clouds. The sun had long since set, but a full moon helped him keep track of the demon. He could feel the air getting thinner and although neither angel nor demon needed to breathe, Aziraphale felt worry begin to course through him.

Suddenly, Crowley stopped.

It was the equivalent of slamming on the brakes, and it caused Aziraphale to overshoot him by several dozen feet. They hung there in the silent sky; the sound of the wind being the only accompaniment to the strange scene.

Then, a sound touched Aziraphale’s ears. It took few moments for him to recognize it as a low moan. And it was coming from below him, from Crowley. And it was rising in volume.

He could see the demon’s bent head slowly lifting as the sound increased from a moan, to a wail, to an anguished scream. Tears filled Aziraphale’s eyes as Crowley gave voice to whatever pain was tearing through him.

The thin air around them shattered.

It shattered into shiny, tiny, black, glass shards that threatened to tear apart the fabric of reality. In spite of automatically clapping his hands over his ears, Aziraphale knew there was no keeping the terrible sound out of his head. Now he understood why Crowley had made this rush into the upper atmosphere.

The sound was a Demon Screech.

If Crowley had let out this Demon Screech from the rooftop of the bookshop, he probably would have taken out several city blocks and killed all of the humans within them. Only Celestial Beings could survive the onslaught of a Demon Screech. It was a sound that was meant to harm, to hurt, to destroy.

To kill.

But while Crowley’s Screech could easily have done all of that, Aziraphale could sense it was somehow… different. Where a normal Demon Screech radiated evil, death, and destruction, the terrifying sound that echoed out of Crowley was pain, anguish, and torment. All of it directed at himself.

Aziraphale found himself sobbing at that Screech, at the thought of all of this pain and emotion trapped inside of Crowley and only able to be released thousands of feet above the Earth. He simply couldn’t imagine enduring that kind of pain for one moment, let alone enduring it for however long Crowley had.

How long they hung there, high above the Earth, before the Screech began to fade down into a simple wail, Aziraphale had no clue. A few more moments and it had slipped down into silence, leaving the sound of the wind as the only thing echoing over the strange scene once again.

Nothing and no one moved.

Then Aziraphale watched in horror as Crowley’s wings relaxed, folding themselves against his back, then disappearing into him, no longer holding him in the air.

He dropped.

For a frozen moment, Aziraphale watched as gravity took hold of Crowley and pulled him relentlessly down back to Earth. And Crowley did nothing to fight it.

If he did nothing to stop the decent, the velocity would become greater and greater until it got to the point that no miracle would ever repair his corporation. Hell would take advantage of the release of the demon and drag him down into its depths to stay.

_Nononononononononononono! _screamed a voice in Aziraphale’s mind. The same thing had hit him during the original Fall and he remembered the horrible sight of friends, compatriots, fellow angels, all descending from the clouds. Their wings had been smoking, burning, blackened feathers falling away as they plunged down into that pool of boiling sulfur, blackened wings broken and useless, unable to save them.

Déjà vu all over again.

_NO!_

He had watched this scene once with millions of angels Falling before him and he was powerless to save any of them. But Aziraphale refused to let that be the case here. This was one ex-angel who did not deserve what Hell was more than ready to put him through, who didn’t deserve to Fall in the first place. Moreover, this was his best friend, the one he truly loved, and he could save him. And he would save him.

With the seeming skill of an Olympic diver, Aziraphale tucked his wings against himself and threw his body downward, again chasing after Crowley.

In spite of the darkness of the Earth below them, Aziraphale could see the demon’s black clad figure descending below him.

_Faster!_ he silently commanded, whether it was to gravity or the laws of physics or his own angelic will, the command rang out to all of them to catch up to his demon.

_Faster!_

_FASTER!_

_FASTER!!!_

_ **FASTER!!!** _

It worked almost too well as Crowley’s body came rushing at him much sooner than he’d expected. Half a heartbeat from crashing into him, Aziraphale’s wings spread out to either side and he flung his arms around Crowley’s chest yanking the dark body to him.

The effect was exactly as Aziraphale hoped it would be. His wings had the same effect as a parachute, slowing their descent.

But the momentum of their bodies colliding in mid-air immediately negated this as it caused them to tumble out of control.

_THIS IS NOT HAPPENING! NOT AGAIN!_ Aziraphale’s mind screamed once again. _I WILL NOT LET HIM FALL AGAIN! I WILL NOT LET MY BEST FRIEND GO THROUGH THIS AGAIN!_

Aziraphale knew what would happen when they hit the ground. This time it would be both of them. They would both be discorporated and each one pulled back to their respective head offices to face retribution for everything they had caused. Crowley would probably be tossed into a veritable lake of holy water, while Gabriel and the others would take great pleasure in slowly roasting Aziraphale over a towering blaze of hellfire. On a spit.

Aziraphale could sense the ground rushing up to meet them, one pair of wings unable to slow the coming onslaught for both of them. He knew what was needed; some way to slow down their fall so that Aziraphale could maneuver them to a soft, controlled landing.

The first time Aziraphale had met Crowley, it had been at the Eastern Gate of Eden, the place he had been assigned to guard. One thing that gate guardians had to be was self-sufficient. When they were injured, they had to take care of themselves. And you could only take care of an efficient machine by knowing everything about it.

Aziraphael pulled Crowley close to him, his fingers probing the demon’s back, directly between the two joints where his wings would have joined into his back. With stiff fingers, Aziraphale gave that point three hard thumps.

He was met with a face-full of black feathers.

He also felt the shock of deceleration as the black wings, now added to the resistance of his own white ones, slowed the downward motion enough to allow Aziraphale to maneuver them both over London and back down to the roof of the bookshop.

Aziraphale and Crowley stumbled as they lost their balance and dropped to their knees, still clutching each other. Aziraphale began to rise, attempting to pull Crowley to his feet as well. But Crowley wouldn’t move. As Aziraphale reached out and took his arm to draw him up, he quickly realized that Crowley was trembling uncontrollably.

Aziraphale knelt down next to the demon and gently grasped his arms. “My dear, let’s go inside.” But Crowley wouldn’t move. He simply knelt there, eyes downcast, his entire body quaking.

So Aziraphale did the best thing he could. He gently scooped Crowley up in his arms and carried him inside.

***

  
Once inside, Aziraphale gently laid the demon onto the bed he himself barely used. As he turned back towards the closet to close up the roof accessway, he felt a set of long, thin fingers wrap themselves almost frantically around his wrist. Turning back, he found Crowley’s anxious golden eyes peering up at him. Aziraphale smiled tenderly as he knelt down next to the bed, softly patting the trembling fingers.

“I’m not going anywhere, my dear,” he said softly. “I just need to close up the accessway.”

Crowley stared at him for several moments, desperation in his eyes, before he slowly let go of Aziraphale’s wrist. Seeing that desperation, Aziraphale snapped his fingers, closing off the accessway. He then rose up, slipped off his coat and his waistcoat, toed off his shoes, and carefully laid down next to Crowley.

They lay there on their sides, staring at each other, two sets of eyes each roaming over the others’ face. How long they lay there, each one seemingly trying to memorize the others’ features, they did not know. It could have been moments or seconds, minutes or hours. Neither one had any clue.

Finally, it was Crowley that reached out a quivering hand to brush his fingertips over Aziraphale’s jaw. Slowly, he caressed the skin there before reaching out to lay his entire hand against the angel’s cheek. Aziraphale could feel the tender desperation in Crowley’s touch, as if he needed to know, needed to feel, that Aziraphale was still there and not some delusion or dream that would pop out of existence once he touched him.

Aziraphale leaned into the touch, laying his hand over Crowley’s.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale breathed to him. He let the words hang in the air between them as either a statement or a question. Which one they would turn out be… well, he would let Crowley decide.

***

  
Crowley’s eyes suddenly snapped shut at the same moment he leaned forward to kiss Aziraphale, his other hand reaching to join the first against the face of the one being he loved. He felt tears spilling down his cheeks, tasted them as they blended themselves into the kiss he shared with his angel.

After several long, painfully blissful moments, the kiss gently ended. Crowley pressed his forehead to Aziraphale’s, uncertain as to what to say next.

He was suddenly very aware of every sensation going through his body at that moment; the stickiness of the salt on his cheeks as his tears evaporated, the burn of his eyes as he fought back new tears, the feel of Aziraphale’s skin beneath his fingertips, the residual tingle on his lips from Aziraphale’s kiss.

He was aware of the thread of connection to his angel that he always felt beneath his sternum, along with the dull ache that had appeared when that thread had been had been restored. It was a memory of the agonizing pain that had bloomed there as he had run into a burning bookshop to call out to him, searching for him, and suddenly realizing there was nothing; it was the memory of that emptiness that driven him so close to the edge, driven him to seek solace in a soon-to-be-smashed scotch bottle in the hopes that those memories would be washed away with those lovely feelings of intoxication.

“I couldn’t find you.”

Crowley had buried his face in Aziraphale’s chest, inhaling his scent, the soft scent of jasmine and clean sheets that had been dried in the sunshine, when he had finally muttered those words to him.

“I’m sorry, dearest?” asked Aziraphale, who had only heard the words as a bundle of sound that he was unable to interpret.

Crowley lifted his head from Aziraphale’s chest to stare straight into his blue eyes.

“I couldn’t find you!” Crowley’s voice rose sharply. “In your bookshop! When it was burning! I couldn’t find you! I couldn’t feel you! I’ve been able to feel you for 6000 years and suddenly you were gone! All I could think was that you were dead!” Crowley buried his face in his chest again. “You were dead, Aziraphale! All I could think of was that you were dead and it _FUCKING HURT!”_

Azraphale’s arms wrapped around him as the torrent of words poured out of Crowley like the rain of the Great Flood poured out of the sky.

“It wasn’t just sadness or despair or hopelessness or even a combination of all three of them. No, this was far worse! Not only was it all of those things, it was _physical!_ It was as if Satan himself and all the ten million demons of Hell had taken their claws, reached inside of me, and not only torn our connection to scraps, but pulled out every single part of me; what you would have called my heart. Did you know that your heart screams as it is being ripped out of you? I know mine did! That scream still sometimes rings in my ears. And when it was gone, all that was left behind, was a black, aching hole centered in my chest that could never be filled and would never stop fucking hurting!

“That’s why you found me in that pub both times. It was the memory of all of that, of my heart being ripped out and shattered and my very soul being cut to ribbons by the pieces that I wanted to forget. This was why I reached for the scotch bottle. And kept reaching for it. Until you dragged me out of that pub.”

At that moment, Aziraphale’s wings curled around both of them, wrapping them in a cocoon of brilliant white feathers, shutting out the rest of the world. His voice was a soothing whisper.

“Was that why you flew away, darling? Why you had to let out that awful screech? Because of the memory of all of that?”

Crowley nodded against his chest. “It was either that or screech right there up on the roof or just let myself explode. Either way, all of it was coming out and if I stayed were I was, I was sure it would cause a lot of damage. And I like Soho too much to try redecorating it.”

In spite of himself, Aziraphale giggled.

Hearing the sound, feeling it vibrate through the body he was snuggled close to, Crowley couldn’t help but smile. He wasn’t sure who to thank anymore, but he was grateful to Somebody that his angel was still here with him. Moreover that he _knew_, that he could **_feel,_** that fact deep within his chest.

As if in response to his thoughts, Aziraphale reached down between them and gently pressed his hand over Crowley’s sternum. Crowley felt a tiny spark of warmth suddenly appear there. After a moment, he felt it begin to grow, spreading throughout his torso, filling him with warmth and light, pushing away that dark ache and filling up nearly every dark space inside of him with a tremendous feeling of love. He pulled his head away from the angel’s chest and stared up into his blue eyes.

“Aziraphale,” he whispered, the sound filled with wonder. “What—?”

“I’m afraid it’s only temporary, my dear,” he said gently. “It will probably wear off in a year or so, but I just wanted to do something about the pain in your eyes.” He shook his blond head. “You do not deserve that.”

Crowley sighed. “There’s an overwhelming number of beings that would disagree with you.”

“I don’t care. As far as I’m concerned, they can all go to Hell.”

Crowley smiled. “Most of them are already there.”

“Good,” answered Aziraphale. “It saves us a lot of trouble.”

They both laughed.

As their laughter dropped down into gentle smiles, Aziraphale reached forward and tilted Crowley’s face upwards to press a soft kiss to his lips. For several moments, they reveled in the simple feel of each other. When the kiss did end, Aziraphale whispered against Crowley’s soft mouth, “I love you.”

Crowley silently pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s again as his arms slid around his waist. A smile tugged at his lips as he said quietly and without his usual vocal swagger, “Of course you do.”

Aziraphale blinked.

“You’re a creature of love,” Crowley continued. “You always keep telling me that you were made to love all of God’s creatures, great and small. You spent five years trying to teach young Warlock that lesson. Why shouldn’t you love me?”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale said softly. “One thing you need to realize is that just because I was made to love all, does not mean I chose to do so.” He sighed. “I do not hate, but there are some I choose not to love. Certain—”. He cleared his throat contemptuously. “Archangels come to mind.”

Crowley tried not to laugh at this. But Aziraphale could feel the vibration of his suppressed mirth ripple through Crowley’s body as he held him in his arms. In response, a small smile touched his lips before Aziraphale continued.

“I can choose who to love as well as how to love them.”

Crowley blinked in confusion.

“My dear, there are so many kinds of love in this universe. Love of a mother for a child or that child for their mother. Love between friends. Chaste love. Erotic love. Love of God or whatever deity one chooses. Love between siblings. And of course, love for all of God’s creatures.” He gave Crowley a tender smile at this.

“Created as I am, I feel them all. And I do love, and have loved, so many beings throughout the millennia. But I allow myself to have a sort of “angelic free will,” one might say. As I said, I choose who to love as well as how to love them.”

At this, Aziraphale’s hands left Crowley’s back to reach up and cradle the demon’s face in them, looking as deeply into his golden eyes as was possible. His voice dropped to a tender whisper.

“And I will tell you this, Anthony J. Crowley. There is only one single being in this universe that I choose to love, not only with every part of my heart and every bit of my soul, but with every single form of love that exists. And that one being is you.” He smiled almost ruefully. “And as blasphemous as it may sound, not even the Almighty gets that.”

Crowley stared at his angel, tears pricking his eyes once again. _So much for ‘demon’s don’t cry’,_ he thought. He’d done more crying in the last week than he had in the last 5000 years or so.

But these tears were joyful tears, so that didn’t count. He smiled at the thought.

Crowley felt his own wings spring out from his back to wrap themselves around the two of them, allowing them be held together by the cushion of black and white feathers, as well as the arms they embraced each other with.

“Aziraphale,” he breathed, pressing a tender kiss to his lips. “Angel.” Another gentle kiss. “MY angel.” The kiss was more intense.

“I love you.”

This time, it was Aziraphale’s eyes that filled with happy tears.

***

  
It was several hours and one luscious nap later that they were both startled awake by a crash of thunder. For a brief moment, they both thought the sound might be signaling the arrival of the Hosts of Heaven or the Demons of Hell. They both relaxed at the accompanying sound of rain.

Glancing out the window, Crowley frowned at the sight of the lightning and the rain and turned to Aziraphale.

“Didn’t the weather report say that we weren’t going to have rain until the end of the week? I mean, I know weathermen are liars, but I’ve never known them to be so blatant about it by being off by nearly a week.”

An amused smile lit up Aziraphale’s face. “Actually, dear. I believe that Screech of yours may have disrupted the local weather patterns.”

At Aziraphale’s words, Crowley snickered, but quickly managed a sheepish look at the angel’s chastising expression. A moment later, Aziraphale giggled at Crowley’s response.

“Oops.”


End file.
